Imaginary friends
by guineapiggie
Summary: John Watson remebers. Nobody else does, and nobody believes him. But then he meets a stranger who is just as mad as Sherlock was, and he knows about the crack that took his best friend. He promises John to try and get him back. Prompted by the YouTube-vid "Elysium", including Clara and post-Manhattan Amy. Rated T for implied depression and mentions of violence. CHAPTER 6 IS UP
1. Introduction

**Introduction**

**Diclaimer: **I own neither Doctor Who nor Sherlock, no matter how I whish I did. Don't own the video, either.

_***A/N* This was prompted by a completely brilliant video by **_**ThePteryx, ****_which I will try to link at the end. Please check it out, it's amazing. If there is enough interest, I'll continue this, so if you like it, please leave a review._**

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My name is John Watson, I'm a British army doctor on pension, and most people say that what I've seen in Afghanistan drove me mad in the end. I don't believe that, but sadly people who have actually lost it always believe themselves to be perfectly sane, too.

My story is weird, and I understand if you stop reading this in a moment. Most people don't believe me. In fact, no one does.  
My best friend, Sherlock Holmes, who was a bit of a sociopath, a complete arsehole most of the time and the most brilliant man I have ever known, disappeared through a crack in a wall. There you go. This is the point were you decide that I'm a complete lunatic and you're wasting your time.

You're still with me? Well, that's impressive. Anyway, we were on a case, Sherlock and I, because that was what we did. We were private detectives, or "consulting detectives" as he liked to call it. The Yard had found a body on a construction site, and because they couldn't make anything of it, they called for him. The case itself bored Sherlock within seconds ("27, married, had a lover who killed her because she didn't want to leave her husband, isn't that obvious?") but he showed a great deal of interest in a long crack in one of the walls. It seemed like a perfectly ordinary thing to me, but Sherlock shook his head. "This is by no means an ordinary crack, John. First of all, this is a construction site. This wall has been here for less than two months, and it seems rather unusual that it should be damaged like this already."

"Well, maybe it was some sort of calculation mistake or something," I suggested.

"If it was, they would have fixed it," he answered impatiently and stepped closer to the crack while the policemen removed the body and the forensics packed their things.

Excited as he always was when he came across a mystery, he ran his long fingers along the crack and examined it through his magnifying glass.

"They _did _try to fix it," he muttered, more to himself then to me. "They tried to patch it up, but it left this crack completely untouched…" He bent down and tried to glimpse through the crack.

"John, go into the next room and see if it goes all the way through the wall."

I knew I shouldn't let him boss me around like that, but as usual, I found myself doing what he told me. The next room was just as empty and unfinished as the other one, but the wall was spotless and even.

"No, it's just on this side," I reported. "Sherlock, what exactly are you doing…?"

He hadn't even heard me. "Check if the window closes well."

He was standing two feet away from the window. I rolled my eyes and examined the small window. The painters had left splatters of beige paint on the frame, but it was perfectly leak-proof, double pane, even.

"It is…?" I said, still waiting for an explanation. None came.

"Close the door and stand here next to me."

I gave a small groan of frustration, but he didn't react to it, so I reluctantly did as he had said. "What now?" I asked, staring at the crack.

"Do you feel it?"

"Feel what?"

"The draft. There's a draft. You've closed the door and it can't be coming from the window, so it must come from the crack, but you just said it doesn't go all the way through."

"That's strange, I'll give you that…" I muttered. "Maybe the wall isn't solid and it comes from the roof?"

"You've seen the roof, John. It's heavy, no architect who has got the slightest bit of sense in them would trust walls that aren't solid to carry a roof like that."

"So where does it come from?" I was convinced he would snap some genius answer at me that was completely obvious, but instead he just whispered the phrase. I was very close to marking it in my diary when he said it, because he barely ever did.

"I don't know…"

He made another step towards it and tore at it with his fingernails as if he was trying to open it. Apparently, the crack didn't like that at all.

It started glowing. I swear, I saw it, a blue light came out of it as if someone had switched on a gas flame inside the wall. I stumbled backwards and stared at the crack, completely puzzled, because next thing, the crack widened. Not like a crack in wall would, more like a wound that was torn open. And the blue light blazed through the room and reached Sherlock.

"John…" he whispered hoarsely. Something strange was happening to him. He seemed to become transparent, or, to be precise, it looked as though he was going to water and flowed into the crack. I'd never seen anything so surreal in my life. Sherlock, much to my surprise, looked horrified.

"John, run," he yelled, and then, in another flash of bright light, he was gone. I backed away from the light, but the crack snapped close just as quickly as it had opened.

And this is how Sherlock Holmes vanished from the face of the earth, and no one has seen him ever since.

~o~o~o~

But that's not the worst thing about it.

The worst thing is that nobody remembers him apart from me, not DI Lestrade from the Yard, not his favourite subject of humiliation Anderson, not Molly from the morgue who had always had a crush on him, not even his brother.

Nobody remembers him.

It's like he had never existed.

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watch?v=YrrtY8mHd1A Video is called "Elysium"


	2. A stranger in the park

**A stranger in the park**

**Disclaimer: **And finally, after all those years of waiting...they're still not mine. And series three isn't out, either. There you go, Amelia. Waiting sucks.  
(Although they gave us a teaser trailer to get me from "How can Matt be leaving?!" to "OMG Sherlock is coming back! *complete freak out*)

_***A/N* I'm afraid I won't be able to update this regularly. I will try my best to keep new chapters coming, though, so check on it every now and then. I hope you enjoy it, please review, tell me what I could have done better and point any grammar mistakes out to me so I can fix them.**_

All that happened about two months ago. I haven't found a single other person who remembers him, not even someone who believes me.

I'm at my wits end, obviously.

I'm kind of scared they'll lock me up in some sort of lunatic asylum, but I'm still trying to spread the word.

He was my best friend, he was the _only _friend I had after the war, and I will not, cannot be silent about this.

~O~O~O~

I sit on a park bench, clutching a coffee, and stare at the children playing opposite. After a while, I notice one of the mothers looking at me in a funny way, and realize that I probably shouldn't be staring at children so intently. They're going to think I was some creeper.

I remember the last time I sat on this bench. Mike Stamford, an old pal from university, had recognized me and we had had a chat about my current situation. That was when he told me I was the second of his friends looking for a flat share. That was how I came to meet Sherlock Holmes.  
Which, according to the rest of the world, of course never happened.

Suddenly it dawns on me that someone is sitting next to me. I look around, startled, wondering whether I should worry more about the fact that the man is sitting there or about the fact that it took me so long to notice him.

He doesn't look very frightening on first sight. In fact, he looks really weird, like he had fallen out of an old photograph. He's wearing a brown waistcoat, a frock coat of the same colour, matching trousers and old-fashioned leather boots. A bow tie with an impressively hideous pattern and the golden chain of a pocket watch complete his questionable outfit.

"Erm...hello," I say as he does not make a sound.

He turns around, smiling broadly at me as if he had only just noticed I was there. "Hello! Did you call for me?"

"Excuse me?" is the wittiest reply I can muster.

"I got a message, you see…" he mutters, rummaging around in his pockets, "on my psychic paper… hang on, it has to be… ah, there you are!" He pulls out something that looks like a passport triumphantly and holds it out to me.

_It was the crack, I've seen it. Please believe me._

I stare at the words, completely nonplussed, because I know them.

"I wrote that, yes," I explain reluctantly. "but in an e-mail, and I know who I send it to. And I typed it."

The writing on the paper is not mine, but it is clearly a man's handwriting.

"Yeah, that's the paper…" he answers happily and packs it away again. "Now, tell me about - no, hang on. What's your name?"

"John Watson," I hear myself say and it sounds like a question.

The man opposite seizes my left hand (the right one is still holding the coffee, which must be cold by now) and shakes it. "Nice to meet you, John. I'm the Doctor."

Finally, my brain starts to work a little again and I'm starting to get wary. "What sort of doctor, exactly?"

He beams up at me with boyish glee. "Of everything, if you like. And it's a name, everybody needs a name, don't they, John?"

I'm starting to wonder how old this guy is. From his behaviour, I'd say he's either twelve or ninety, from his face, I'd say twelve was a good guess.

"Well then," he says suddenly, "tell me about this crack." All of sudden, his face has gone very serious and just a little sad. I'm not so sure about twelve any more, because there is something ancient sitting in his eyes.

And the next moment, I find myself telling this stranger everything.


	3. More powerful than you think

**More powerful than you think**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Sherlock and I don't own Doctor Who and I don't own the video this fic is based on.

_***A/N* This is a bit of a transition, so sorry it's so short. I hope you enjoy it anyway, next one will be longer. Please review, follow or favorite as you wish.**_

* * *

I fall silent. The man sitting next to me looks like he has an awful lot to say, but doesn't make a sound. So we just sit there, two strangers on a park bench in London, under a heavy, dark grey sky, and stare into the same direction.

"Why don't they remember?" I whisper after a while, more to myself than to him.

"Because he was erased from time," he answers quietly. "His existence was erased from reality, he was never born in the first place."

I look up at him, trying to decide whether I should be laughing at his bizarre joke or pitying him for his queer ideas. But the man seems absolutely serious, and he's still got that look in his eyes. This old sadness.

I guess it shows just how desperate I am that I believe him. "Explain."

He sighs and turns towards me. "Imagine reality was a… a window pane. It's not, obviously, but anyway...What happens if you hit it with a stick, right in the middle?"

"The glass cracks."

He nods and continues, gesturing wildly to underline it: "The cracks spread out from the point where you hit it. And along these cracks, there are rifts in reality where something might fall through."

I can't help a disbelieving snort. "And end up where? In a parallel universe?"

"No, in what is between parallel universes. In complete and utter nothingness. Anyway, what goes through the rift is no longer on our window pane, right?" He looks at me and checks if I'm still following. I'm really not at all, but he goes on nevertheless. "So, it stops existing. And you can't just exist in one moment and then vanish, you disappear completely. History is being a teensy bit rewritten, you were never born. Twins become only children, a married man has suddenly been single all his life… people have never shared a flat with anyone," he adds and gives me a sad smile.

His explanation is completely absurd, but I have spent so much time looking so desperately for any sort of explanation that even that is enough for me.

"Then why do I remember him? If he was never born, then why do I remember him?"

He answers carefully, as if it were important to find the exact right words: "People fall out of the world sometimes, but they always leave traces. I bet you found stuff that belonged to him, nothing valuable, just a spare pair of socks or an old bar of chocolate."

_Or a pack of cigarettes_, I remember suddenly.

"But how can I remember something that never happened?" I repeat impatiently.

Another smile, cheerier this time. "Love's more powerful than you think."

"We weren't-" I burst out, but he cuts me off, chuckling about my reaction.

"Any sort of love. A parent's love would do just as well, or a brother's. In your case, a friend's. It's what keeps those memories with you. You loved him too much to let go."

"So that's what you tell me? Let him go?" I ask, not sure if I want to hear the answer.

"Not at all! If something can be remembered, it can come back. John, I can't promise you that we'll get him back, but if you helped me, I could try."

"How?" is my only answer, not even hesitating for a second.

The Doctor grins. "Well, we've got the two most impossible and probably the most magical things in the universe."

"What would that be?"

He jumps to his feet and leads the way with a small spring in his steps. "Love and a time machine!"


	4. Welcome to the Snog Booth

**Welcome to the Snog Booth**

**Disclaimer:** All those things, all those amazing things - they're still not mine.

_***A/N* Here's the new chapter (and finally, they get to do a bit of moving ;) ) I hope you like it, please leave a review to let me know what you think!**_

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"A time machine?" I repeat with a snort. Good God, what have I got myself into? "Don't try to tell me fairy tales."

The man turns around and walks up to me until he stands but inches away. "John, why do you swallow my stories about rifts in time just like that, without complaint, but you are not prepared to believe in time machines?" He gives a dramatic sigh. "Why do humans never believe in time machines? In less than five hundred years, you lot are gonna build them yourselves!"

Wow, Marty McFly in a frock suit and bow tie.

"What, so you're not human?" I scoff.

He doesn't reply, just flashes me a mischievous smile and, grabbing the sleeve of my jacket, pulls me impatiently towards the park's exit.

But, I may be small and limping and I may have lost a good seven pounds since Sherlock vanished, but I'm no one to just drag along wherever you want. I stay rooted to the spot, forcing him to stop.

"Who are you?"

He rolls his eyes and turns towards me again. "You're not giving up, are you?"

"I just told you about half of my life, it's only fair that I knew something about yours."

"If I told you half my life's story, we'd still be here in twelve years," he answers in this serious, tired voice that just won't match his boyish appearance. He pauses for a second, then adds cheerfully:

"Only so much for now: I'm from the future, the very _far_ future, actually. I travel in time and space and I have done so for a very long time."

"That doesn't answer my question," I interrupt impatiently, not wording my thoughts about him sounding like a poorly written si-fi-novel character. "Who are you?"

"I _told_ you, I'm the Doctor."

"Because you've got a medical degree?" I inquire hotly.

"Because that's my _name_, John, pay _attention_," he says in an annoyed drawl. The only thing missing to the picture of the impatient three year-old is the food stomping.

How can anyone's mood change so quickly?

"I got loads of names, but I don't like most of them, some are impossible to say, others are ridiculous. And besides, the Oncoming Storm is kinda long for everyday use, isn't it?"

Who in the name of Heaven would give anyone such a title?

"The oncoming what? Oh, never mind...you _travel in time and space_? How's that supposed to work?"

"Well, I was _about_ to show you, but you just won't _let_ me!"

~o~o~o~

The doctor darts through the streets of London as if we had God knows what on our heels. I'm struggling to keep up, almost tripping over my walking cane. Every now and then he throws me a curious glance.

"What's wrong with your leg?"

"Nothing," I answer with a wry smile.

That seems to arouse his interest. He slows down a bit (I'm still having trouble to keep up with his long legs, though) and asks: "Then why are you limping?"

"It's psychosomatic. I know I could walk on it, but I can't stop," I explain curtly. I'm tired of explaining this. I'm tired of people even asking.

"Ah…" he mutters and studies my face as if he saw it for the first time. "You were a soldier, weren't you, John?" His voice is soft, almost sad.

Wow, he's quick, I have to give him that. His sharp deduction takes me by surprise, it reminds me of Sherlock, but while he had been completely objective, the Doctor seems to pity me. Not like most people do though, in that oh-the-war-must- be-so-terrible-with-all-the-bombs-and-stuff-like-o n-the-telly-fashion. There's a very knowing look in his eyes, as if he had seen something actually terrifying enough to understand what it's like at war.

"Yeah." I still don't want pity, no matter what sort.

I've always found Sherlock's indifference very pleasant.

~o~o~o~

We cross a crowded street and enter a dark alleyway.

A couple of cars are parked in front of the shadowy entrances. Paint peels off the doors and a slightly mouldy smell hangs in the air. At the far end of the street stands, forlorn and forgotten, a blue telephone box, a relict of old times. A police box, as it says clearly on top of it. With confident steps, he marches towards it.

Confusedly, I stumble after him.

"You can have my phone if you want to call someone…?" I mutter and watch him reach for the door. "I bet that thing doesn't even work anymore."

He laughs heartily and disappears into the box.

"Come on in," he calls from inside. It sounds muffled, far away.

I frown. There's hardly enough space in that box for the two of us.

I can't take that seriously. What am I supposed to do in there?

But as he doesn't come back out again, I hesitantly open the door. The image in front of my eyes reaches my brain belatedly. And when it does, it doesn't make any sense.

I appear to be standing in some sort of control room, circular, sombre and full of a blueish glow. The platform on which I am standing is leading to a big, circular console arranged around a massive column . Another three bridges lead away from the console. Beneath the platforms seems to be a lower level, and several doors at the end suggest more rooms. An odd humming noise fills the air and I can feel it vibrating under my feet as if the floor was alive.

And the room, diameter and the height of the ceiling… well, they're about twenty times too big to fit into an old police box.

The Doctor stands next to the massive console full of buttons and blinking lights, grinning proudly. "Welcome to the TARDIS! Anything you might wanna say?"

I glance at him and realize he wants to hear something along the lines of _this is the most unbelievable thing I've ever seen_, so I try to think of some matter-of-fact statement.

"Your lighting's pretty bad. It's not good for your eyes," I answer drily.

He throws me a funny look, then smiles and mutters: "Well, I thought you were a quite exceptional sod."

Then he turns on his heels, dashes through one of the corridors and I can hear him yell for someone named "Clara".

"John…" He returns with a smile and a young woman on his heels. "This is Clara, she travels with me."

"Er, John Watson," I introduce myself slightly flustered.

Clara's very short, at least next to him. Shoulder-length sleek brown hair frames her pretty face. She smiles at me and her big hazel eyes sparkle warmly in my direction.

I think I might like it here.


	5. Onwards

**Onwards**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock, nor do I own Doctor Who, nor do I own the video, nor do I own anything else. Except the DVDs.

_***A/N* Yay, new chapter done! Gosh, I'm so proud of myself, I thought I'd never finish this before, like, Christmas. I hope you're as satisfied with it as I am. Also yay for fairly regular updates, I hope I'll be able to keep this up (real life tends to get in the way, though…).  
Some of the dialogue might seem a bit forced, but I desperately wanted to work in some references and all the lines included in the video "Elysium".  
I never mentioned this before, but I thought I should now: this takes place before "The Reichenbach Fall" and after "The Name of the Doctor".**_

_**Also, a MASSIVE thanks to all of you guys who reviewed or favorited!**_

* * *

"All right then." The Doctor leads me through the bigger-on-the-inside phone box. So far, we've crossed eight flights of stairs, nineteen corridors, complete with over twenty doors each, some old-fashioned, some looking like they actually belonged into a spaceship. I've glimpsed a massive library, something that looked like a big frozen floor for ice-skating and a room resembling a 19th-century ballroom. But I'm starting to get the feeling he's leading me in circles to show off his time machine.

"Here's the plan." He comes to a halt in a room full of weird blinking technical thingies. Cables come out of floor and ceiling like roots of some strange plant and the whirring that fills the whole complex of rooms and corridors and broom cabinets seems a whole lot louder in here.

The Doctor does his overly dramatic spinning, frock coat flying, and gestures towards one of the big cable bundles.

"This is the TARDIS's main navigation system. It functions about the same way the human brain does." He sighs and sinks down on one of the smaller machines. "The last couple of times I had to deal with these cracks, I had no way to reach those who'd gone through 'cause I didn't know them well enough to keep their memory alive, or because they had for some reason slipped away from the people who loved them, too. But this time, I've got you. You remember. And the bond between you and Sherlock could lead the TARIDS to him."

"That sounds a bit too easy, right?" says Clara, who has appeared in the door.

He pulls a face and nods. "I said could, not will. A memory might not be enough, it could be misleading, or we could get to that place and not get out again. And that's just the top of the iceberg."

"How am I supposed to lead your machine to Sherlock? I mean, I'm hardly gonna talk to it, am I?"

Another sigh. "Clara."

"Yes?"

Leaning back, the Doctor eyes her and says quietly: "As I said, it's dangerous. We might not be coming back. It's your choice, you don't have to stay here. Feel free to leave, I'll pick you up when it's done."

"Are you kidding me? We've not had a real adventure for months." To emphasise her words, she sits down on the floor and returns his serious look. "No seriously, I want to help."

Third sigh. "Why did I know you'd say that?"

She smiles.

"John."

"Huh?"

"You too. Back out of this any time you want. You don't have to do this."

I can't help a snort because, after all, he can't be serious. To bring back Sherlock, I'd do anything. And of course I'd die. I'd die twenty times all over if that meant I could have him insulting me again.

My life's not worth a thing without him anyway. It's not even a life. It's existence, metabolism and cellular activity and electric signals in the synapses of my brain, but it's not life.

Or, if this is life, I don't want it.

"You can back out of the deal," I offer because I feel like he should be asked, too. "I won't."

"And I promised," he replies with a fleeting smile. "I'm afraid I've got a knack for promising impossible things."

He jumps off his box with sudden restlessness and starts pacing up and down, fingertips joined together under his chin. Are all geniuses doing that? Or is he just Sherlock's soul mate or something?

"All right, say we get there without problems - no, don't say that, there will be problems. The universe doesn't make things easy for you. In fact, prepare for every problem you can possibly thing of. At once."

"We could, I don't know, dissolve into atoms?" Clara suggests with a fat load of black humour.

The Doctor answers absent-mindedly: "Oh, that wouldn't be the biggest problems. It doesn't hurt."

Oh great, how reassuring.

"No use brooding about the problems, is there?" The pacing is driving me crazy so I plant myself right in front of him to stop him. "Now, how can I tell your box where to go?"

"It's not a box, it's a type 40 TARD-"

"Yeah, whatever. Tell me."

He eyes me from head to toe, then gives a defeated nod. "Come with me."

He makes his way to the far corner of the room, ducking wires and jumping over holes and rifts in the floor. Having apparently reached his destination, he starts fiddling with a bundle of wires until he digs up something looking like a loose end. He holds it up triumphantly and the wire catches the dim light. It looks sharp and fragile, like a needle.

"I'll root you to the TARDIS main circuit. As I said, it works on the same level your brain does, so it should be easy for her to get the information. You're compatible, see?" He pauses and suddenly he stops looking over-confident. In fact, there's not the teensiest glimpse of confidence left.

"I've never done that before. I really don't know what it might do to you."

"I don't care." It's been a long time since my voice has sounded so calm, so completely unwavering.

I can see it in his eyes, that now, finally, he believes me.

"Fair enough. Clara, go back to the console and push the big green button next to the zigzag-plotter," he orders without turning around.

Her footsteps disappear quickly. The humming around us seems to grow louder.

"Can you remember him?" he asks suddenly.

"Sure."

"Not just the way the world saw him, but the way he was? For real?"

"Yes," I answer decidedly after a second of hesitation.

"A hundred per cent?"

"No one could fake being such an annoying dick all the time," I reply with a smile. Sherlock Holmes may have been arrogant and brilliant and absolutely not like the rest of the world, but if anyone out there ever knew him, it's me.

He returns the grin. "Okay. Give me your hand."

"Why are you doing this? Why are you helping me?" I inquire, not moving an inch.

The Doctor seems to think about that for a moment. Then he answers simply: "You've lost someone."

"Yeah. So what?"

His green eyes, they look so old now. He's a soldier, or he's been one, I'm certain of it. I recognise the eyes of a man who's seen too much, and he's got them. His voice is low and slightly hoarse.

"Me too."

There's a moment of silence except for the humming filling my ears while I'm trying to figure out who it could be that he's lost. Whoever it was and whatever happened to them, though, he seems to miss them an awful lot.

In an attempt to break the silence, I hold out my hand. It's not shaking anymore.

With some effort, he wipes the grief off his face, takes my hand, turns it palm upwards and hands me the needle-like wire.

"You know more about nerves than I do, I suppose."

Another grin, full of excitement, but with a hint of panic.

"Are you ready?"

"Let's bring him back," I agree and, as the needle pierces the skin of my finger, I repeat quietly, solemnly:

"Bring back Sherlock."


	6. An Unexpectedly Unpleasant Journey

**An unexpected**ly unpleasant** journey**

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Doctor Who, I do not own Sherlock, I do not own the BBC and I didn't make the video.

_***A/N* I know it's rather short, but I'm changing perspective and I thought this would make a better ending for the chapter. I'm trying to incorporate all of the lines in the video, so if you recognize a line, that's not strictly copying, I'm just staying close to my source ;) (Like the lines from "Amy's Choice" and "The Name of the Doctor" for example). As for the title… Sorry, I couldn't resist.**_

* * *

The Doctor has dragged me back into the Console Room because apparently, we've got coordinates, even though to me they look like a messy bunch of circles.

We're all standing in front of a small screen, staring at the so-called coordinates, the Doctor in awe, Clara in fascination and me in utter confusion.

"So it worked, then?"

"Well," the Doctor is back to pushing buttons and darting around the console, "at least we've got a possible destination. Space-time coordinates."

"They don't look like coordinates."

He flashes me a grin and starts fiddling with a strange instrument. "How would you describe a location in another galaxy in Earth coordinates, then?"

"Fair point."

Clara, still standing in front of the screen, tracks the circles with her finger. "Can you read them?"

"Meh, the TARDIS is taking care of that. Would take me ages to decipher the exact location."

"So, when are we going?"

"No idea," he replies happily and runs off. He's lying.

"Where do you think we'll go?" I ask quietly.

She shrugs. "God knows. Since the Doctor talked of parallel universes, there might even be no time. We could end up anywhere." She smiles at the sight of my worried frown and adds: "But honestly, I'm just as clueless as you are. We'll see."

"You're not worried it's dangerous?"

"The Doctor's with us, he'll get us out."

I know I'm not exactly in the position to give lectures about trusting the wrong people too much, so I keep my mouth shut.

"Well then," the Doctor emerges from one of the doors, but definitely not the one through which he just left, "we're all prepared for God knows what, Clara, help me, John!"

"Aye, Captain?" I reply and can't help a mock salute.

His voice drops about half an octave, sending a light shiver down my spine. Wherever we're going, it's dangerous and he knows that all too well. The smile on his face can't reassure me and I don't think it's supposed to.

"Hold on tight."

A bizarre whooshing noise fills the air and the humming in the floor grows into a strong vibration.

"What's going on?", I hear myself ask, panicking slightly.

He flashes me another grin and shoves me towards the hand rail. "Get a grip, John, really. Ready for take off!"

~o~o~o~

I've sat in military jets with some of the best people of the Air Force, but I don't think I've ever seen someone push so many buttons at once. I'm starting to believe that thing's not meant to be flown by only one person, and Clara is not too much help as it seems.

"The red button, Clara, _now!_"

_"They're all red!"_

The Doctor gives an exasperated groan, pushes her aside and jams his finger into a small button (they are indeed all red).

"Pull the lever next to the big blinking thing, can you do that?"

This time she finds the right thing, but she's still having trouble. "Pull it up or down?"

The Doctor's rather occupied with a bunch of sirens and blinking lights that look suspiciously like an alarm to me, typing rapidly into a small screen and begging his machine under his breath to stop fussing. "Just… down, pull it down, hurry up!"

Time to interfere. "Can I help…?"

"No, actually," he starts waving his hand about vigorously, "everybody step back, just leave it!"

The floor is starting to shake heavily. I grab the hand rail as firmly as I can while the room is tumbling around me until I can't tell up and down apart anymore.

"What's happening? Doctor, what's that?" Clara yells through the noise.

"She's just figured out where we're going, she's against it! Come on, old girl, you can do it!"

The shaking has reached the strength of a grown earthquake. The noise is unbearable and signs rush over the displays so fast I couldn't tell the language if my life depended on it. My head is spinning and the blinking all around me doesn't make it any better.

"Doctor!" I bark, barely even hearing myself anymore. I don't understand how he is still standing upright while the room seems to enjoy itself cartwheeling around space.

"Hang on!" he yells back, desperately jamming buttons and jerking levers and shouting incomprehensible words at the console.

"What the hell is that?"

"_It's not me!"_ He shakes his head, repeatedly pressing the same button without effect. "Someone - something - is overriding my controls!"

Now that sounds really reassuring. The only thing that prevents me from being seriously seasick is the adrenaline burning through my veins.

A new noise joins the others, mingling with the alarms, beeping, overgrown whooshing and the odd wheezing of what I take to be the engines. A high screeching noise that sounds like metal being cut or rather metal being ripped apart.

"_What are you doing?"_ I can hear the Doctor roaring.

I don't know, but it doesn't sound too good.

The floor gives the most violent jolt so far, and the last thing I hear is Clara screaming for the Doctor before I hit my head on the rail and the world turns dark around me.

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